Helter Skelter
by corbyinoz2
Summary: Virgil has done everything his family has ever asked of him, but tonight? Tonight is for him. Tonight is the realization of a lifelong dream and the reward for a year of hard work and hard study. Of course, things never turn out the way he expects them to. But maybe the ups and downs of life as a Tracy (and Gordon's big brother) has a thing or two to teach Virgil yet.


From The Saturday Sessions file, and with sincere apologies to Soleil Lumiere who got handed this and was somehow expected to write a response in an hour. She forgave me enough to do a great beta job, as usual.  
The prompt we gave each other was 'up and down'.

 **Text:**

He stood on the pavement outside the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts and took several long breaths full of nothing but New York and city-wide anticipation heightened to a state of near hysteria. Behind him a wall of golden light, before him a mass of people gathering to become an audience.

He should have been breathing in Florida heat, of course.

Dad's call came just as Virgil staggered out of the final six hour practical that finished his second year exams on Wednesday afternoon.

"Virgil? Good." His father always began conversations like that, as if their names were status updates and the fact they could acknowledge them meant their status was fully functioning and ready for whatever he had to say to them. "I'm worried about Gordon."

Gordon. Of course, Gordon. The kid had been sucking up all the oxygen for the last six months, and it made perfect sense. Scott was happily settled with the USAF, stationed At Beale AFB near Marysville and having some kind of air reconnaissance ball over there; John was finding his own kind of happiness immersed in a double degree and already choosing his doctoral supervisors from the professors swooning to be summoned by him. In Kansas, Alan was breaking all kinds of records with middle school math, and even Kayo, after a rocky few years, had found her groove with high school and Grandma and the Tracy family generally. So of course Gordon would be the focus of parental concern. His story was far more dramatic and time-dependent and finite than anyone else's, rushing toward the mayhem that culminated two weeks ago in Jakarta when Virgil watched as his second youngest brother won gold in the butterfly and silver in the men's four by 100 medley relay. Now he was at some post-Games camp in Tampa, Florida, for review of results and public relations and some kind of oversight of his future training schedule.

Gordon had dominated everyone's thoughts, really, but particularly Virgil's. The final pre-Games training camp was held in Colorado Springs, so with Virgil only 60 miles away in Denver he became point man for the various members of his family to contact when they wanted to know how their brother, lost to them under the water, was doing. And for all Gordon asked about his family and tried to keep in touch, every conversation with him was drenched in chlorine, with a black line running right down the middle of it.

Study, and an engineering degree, took a poor second to the main attraction, and Virgil understood that.

But even if everyone else lost sight of his work, he didn't. And when he took the call on Wednesday, and his father's admonition that he wanted Virgil down in Florida on the weekend, he knew that somehow, through all the craziness of the last half year, he'd managed to find enough time to study and achieve his own good results. Sleep was sacrificed, social life a distant memory, art and music mere snacks of what had once been feasts – but through it all, he'd held true to the degree's demands, and even if no-one else noticed, well, he'd give himself a brief but sincere pat on the back for staying the course. Literally.

Thursday was spent in the emergency department with a friend who'd flamed out spectacularly over the finals and decided to punish himself by destroying his shame along with his own existence with Desoxyn. Phone calls to the boyfriend, and parents, and college administrators filled his time as he waited for the doctors to give the all clear.  
Friday was spent sleeping.

And Saturday…. Saturday was spent flying to New York to fulfil a dream he'd held close in his heart since he was ten years old.

Above his head the marquee sign spread in dazzling light. Anna Polianskaya. The virtuoso pianist of the twenty-first century. All around him the very rich mingled with the very determined, the people who saved every cent they could for years just to have an opportunity like this. She played so rarely these days that a ticket to an Anna concert was Willie Wonka levels of golden.

And Virgil had two.

For all that they were the sons and adopted daughter of a billionaire, their allowances were relatively small. Virgil lived in a pleasant apartment off campus in Denver, and all his living costs were met. But extras were to be worked for, so he spent summers interning at Tracy Industries and through the semesters he worked three nights a week at Flaherty's Engineering, doing dogsbody tasks. That money was his, and Thursday two weeks ago he spent it on a flight to New York just so he could be amongst the first twenty in line to camp over night, two nights, for a ticket.

He should have been studying for the exams, of course. So, being Virgil, he was. A sleeping bag, a laptop and a souped-up data pad accompanied him to his pavement stakeout, and he revised all of them before the box office opened on Saturday morning and he bought two tickets in the second row of the stalls.

So when his father told him that he was worried about Gordon, and he wanted Virgil down there on the weekend, and Virgil said sure, Dad, no problem, what Virgil meant was, "I'll be there Sunday morning. No sweat."

Sunday was the weekend, after all, and goddamn it, but Virgil had dreamed of this ever since he was a kid and printing out pictures of Anna Polianskaya to stick on his bedside chest of drawers so that she was the last thing he saw at night, the first in the morning. He didn't believe in angels much, not since Mom and Grandpa and the obliterating rush of white that came into his mind whenever he thought of them. But Anna… she, and her music, her heavenly music that engulfed him, transported him, even as he settled wrestling matches between Gordon and Alan, or emptied out loose boxes or fixed tractors in the barn, or listened as his dad spoke to him late at night from Europe, from Asia, and it was nothing but heartache coded into business and politics and family chatter… through all of it, her music and her face spoke to him of something else. Something better. Something high and grand and fathomless. It was John who read Wittgenstein, and told him of things that couldn't be put into words, but Virgil understood it immediately. That was where he lived in music, and Anna welcomed him at the door that opened to the infinite.

He had two tickets, but no one to give the second to. Rashema's cancellation came this morning, amidst tears, as her mother was in premature labour and she had to get to Tupelo as fast as she could. She rang not two hours ago to say that all was well, and she was now a big sister to a tiny baby girl – news that had him grinning, and inspired to look around him at the crowd.

The doors were open, but most people were still waiting outside. It was a New York summer night that bowed to the imperative for perfection where Anna was concerned, and the headiness of the excitement mixed with the mildness of the moonlit night meant that most of the audience was milling about on the pavement, seeing and hoping to be seen, soaking in every moment of this magic. Each of their faces held an expression of something; supreme self-satisfaction, tempered in many by a look of disbelief.

This is really happening, that look said. We are really going to get to see Anna Polianskaya.

Virgil looked beyond the people collecting in the foyer and on the pavement immediately outside the front doors. There was another crowd gathered there; a shabbier crowd, in part, many of them going home after a day of work. All of them were drawn to the lights and the sheer magnificence of the occasion; the clothes of those with tickets, their jewels and beauty, their celebrity status, and above all, the name on the marquee.

It was something he never thought about much, and doubted would ever be useful, but Virgil could read a crowd. He could scan across it and somehow pick out individuals, depending on whatever criteria he decided on the day. Maybe it was an ability honed by being tasked to keep track of two younger brothers when they were out as a family. Or maybe it was just an inherent gift for reading stories in faces, for noticing pain or fear or joy.

Now, he noticed an older man, standing well back, gazing at the marquee like someone glimpsing a heaven forever denied him. Virgil knew that look. He'd worn it a time or two himself.

He picked his way through the mass of diamonds and satin and velvet to stand beside the man in casual companionship. It didn't surprise him when the other spoke first.

"Look at her." His voice was pure Brooklyn. "Ain't she something?"

"That she is." Virgil joined him in looking upward. "You know her music?"

The man shrugged. "What's not to know? Soundtrack of my life, and you listen for it, it's everywhere. Even at work."

Virgil nodded. "Where d'you work?"

"Post office. Forty years. Retired two months. Friend of mine, Bobby, he had a pod at his station. He'd play all the worst kinda garbage, and then once a day, he'd give me Anna."

The man gave Virgil a sudden grin, transforming his grey face into something full of light. "Lived for those moments, I gotta tell ya."

"I hear you." Virgil couldn't help smiling back. "Workshop's never quite so crazy when she's coming through the speakers."

"Oh man. That Rachmaninov, that Paganini one? I tell ya, twenty years I been hearing it and it still gives me the chills. Oh well." The man clapped his hands together, ending the dream. "I better get back. Don't suppose them divas come through the front doors."

He was perfect, and Virgil didn't hesitate.

"How would you like to see her play?"

Instantly suspicion clouded the man's face.

"Whaddya mean?"

"I've got a spare ticket."

The man snorted, and put his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah, well, good luck with that, pal. I ain't got the kind of money you're after. And just so you know, you try scalpin' in the wrong corner, your ass is gonna get busted."

"No. I'm not selling it." Virgil assumed his most trustworthy face, which was surprisingly effective most times. "My friend bailed, I've got another ticket, and I figured I'd rather hand it off than turn it in for some socialite to grab." He pulled the ticket from his pocket. "I earned these with two nights on that pavement right over there, so I figure it should go to someone who knows them, too."

He held it up, and the man's eyes couldn't help but follow it.

"I don't know what your deal is – "

"No deal, no trick." Virgil smiled. "I'm just a Midwest boy with a spare ticket, and I thought it would be fun to find someone else who loves Anna as much as I do, maybe make their day. What do you say?"

He'd heard the phrase deer in headlights, of course, had even actually seen the real thing, but he'd never quite seen anyone so helplessly caught between warring desire and fear and hope like this man.

"Look. Just take it. You want to throw it away, your choice. But I promise you, it's real, and if you take it to the entrance, you'll get access to row C, seat 28, in the stalls."

With hands that stayed steady but eyes that betrayed doubt, the man reached over and took the ticket. He stood looking down at it for so long that Virgil felt a sudden embarrassment flush through him.

"So okay, I guess I'll just be going in, now. You can – uh, you can do what you like with that."

He went to move away, but the man shot out an arm and grabbed him.

"No, wait. God, I'm sorry, manners. No manners, my ma would kill me." He let go of Virgil's sleeve and offered his hand. "Vern Bugliotti."

"Vern, I'm Virgil."

"Virgil, hey. Wow. Guess we both scored in the name department, right?" But Vern's expression was troubled. "Look, it's real good of you, but…"

"What is it? You need to be home?"

"No, here's the thing – I got – my daughter, she's had a bad coupla months, and she just loves… would you mind? Would it be okay, I call her, get her to come down, go see her?"

He was perfect.

"Sure."

"Okay then." Now Vern fumbled as he pulled out his phone, overcome by a good fortune he could only dream of and was only excited about now that he could pass it on. Virgil wished he had another ticket.

The phone buzzed in his pocket, and even as he pulled it out he thought to himself he'd have to mute it for the performance.

"Hey. Virgil? S'me." Gordon's voice, unmistakable in its light tenor tone amongst his older brothers' bass.

And the guilt he'd been dodging ever since Wednesday night managed to throw a glancing blow to his solar plexus.

No, no, and no. Tonight was for him. One night.

"Hey, me. What's up?"

"Oh, you know. Not much. I mean, yeah, good and all. What's up with you?"

Now that was definitely un-Gordon like in its lack of aggressive good-humour.

"I'm in New York."

"New York? Huh. I guess – no, never mind."

Virgil sighed.

"What is it, Gordon?"

"Nothing. I mean, I was just thinking maybe you could make it down tonight after all. If there were, you know. Seats. Planes. Hot air balloons. Whatever."

Virgil glanced over at Vern, who had the look on this face of a man who's just won the lottery, and his resolve hardened.

"Yeah, sorry, Gordon, no can do. I'm booked up tonight."

"You can get a manicure any night, Virgil. Seriously. You can probably even get one on the plane you play your cards right."

"I'm doing something else. And it's important to me, so no, I can't make it tonight. Tomorrow you have me, first thing, Tampa airport at 10 am."

"Tomorrow. Yeah, okay." A pause, and Virgil could almost hear Gordon marshalling the second wave of his assault troops. "It's just that tonight, I thought maybe we could do something down here? There's stuff to do, you know, not just the pool."

"Yeah, I know. And no thank you. You'll just have to manage with your little speedo pals by yourself tonight." Virgil made his voice as deep and sure as he could. "I'll see you tomorrow, Gordo. Go plait someone's hair or something."

"You're hilarious." But there was no spark behind it, and for a third time, Virgil's gut stirred, sent him a message he didn't want to hear.

Something's wrong.

"Gordon? You okay?"

"Me? Sure. Hey, yeah, sure, I'm fine."

Oh, no, you're not. He may as well have turned on klaxons and blown whistles.

"Gordon – "

"No, seriously, it's fine. I'll see you tomorrow. Ten a.m. I'll be the one with the banana hat and a duck."

"Why a duck?"

"Ha. Don't start with Groucho." Gordon's voice grew faint for a moment, as if his head was turned away from the phone, and Virgil heard him talking to someone else.

"Okay, Gordo, I gotta go."

"Sorry, what?"

"I gotta go."

"Oh, yeah. Okay. Sure. I'll see you tomorrow."

Virgil chuckled, as if everything was alright, as if the biting little worries down in his belly were mere butterflies.

"Goodnight, Gordon."

He rang off in time to see Vern do the same.

"She was on her way to work. I called Bobby, I'll take her shift. She'll be here real soon." Vern put his hand out. "I can't say real well, what this means, but Rosanna, she's had a tough time."

"You said." Virgil tried to somehow convey that he really didn't need to hear what his daughter had gone through in order to leave the ticket with Vern. "And, I mean, I'm happy to know someone's going to enjoy it."

"You kidding? This is something else."

"Well, good. Be seeing you, Vern." With a hasty wave, Virgil disappeared into the general swim of the crowd disappearing into the Lincoln Center before the little man could begin thanking him again.

He found his seat and took it, almost dazed with anticipation. The stage was bare, with only the grand piano, painted deep magenta as was her insisted upon preference, standing stark under a sole spotlight.

Fifteen minutes later, and just as the house lights began flickering to warn latecomers to hurry, a tiny girl with dark hair in a messy bun, wearing nothing but a clean T shirt and jeans, slid into the seat beside him.

"Virgil? Hi, Rosanna. Oh my god, this is awesome. Thank you, so much."

"You're welcome," Virgil said, grateful for the fact that further conversation was impossible with the lights going down completely. Doing good deeds was fine. Getting thanked for them was painful.

And then there was a hush, and the spotlight was breached by a tall, slim woman in a red dress and Virgil forgot how to breathe for more than an hour.

If it was ever true that care should be taken in making wishes, Virgil had nothing to regret in what he'd wished for in that magical hour. The music was incandescent. Thoughts of Gordon, of Dad, of his family and his studies and his worries disappeared in the swirling wake of Bach and Rachmaninov and Litolff and Chopin.

At intermission it was almost impossible to drag his thoughts back into enough coherence that they could form words. All was form and sound and colour in Virgil's mind, and the sheer mundanity of trying to make conversation was almost beyond him. When he looked to his left, he saw that Rosanna was in a similar state- her face flushed, her eyes sparkling, her hands gripping each other as if anchoring herself to the ground in the face of music that was threatening to take her somewhere else.

They looked at each other, and laughed in recognition, then said nothing more as they waited for the second half. Virgil did think to check his phone – one missed message from Gordon, he'd get back to him after the show – and then the lights were going down and Virgil was ready to be taken again.

It engulfed him. Every pore of his body and his being absorbed and disappeared into it simultaneously. It made him more present than he ever was, and took him away absolutely, ego gone, id seduced, and everything in him alive in the music.

She gave four encores, the first two clearly planned and the third put together on the fly, mutually negotiated on stage between her and the orchestra. For the fourth she came out onto the stage and gestured for people to sit down. Everyone, completely in her thrall, did so.

"I can give one more, but for this, I would like the orchestra to come out and be entertained too, yes?"

And to the roar of acclamation the orchestra climbed from the pit and sat about on the stage, in defiance of all protocol, as she played Bath's Cornish Rhapsody.

When it was over, Virgil realised his face was covered in tears.

They made their way out, amidst the chatter of those who had come to be seen and the silence of those who had come to be consumed, and said goodbye under the marquee sign; two strangers who had shared something sublime and were grateful for the grace of each other's understanding.

Which is when his phone vibrated, and Virgil took it out. Etiquette in a crowd meant he put the phone to his ear.

"Virgil. You're in Tampa?"

Ah.

"No, Dad, actually I'm in New York."

"New York? You're supposed to be in Florida."

There was too much noise for everyday nuance, but the battle stations tone in his father's voice was coming through loud and clear.

"Dad?"

"Never mind." His father never wasted time on what ifs and how comes and why nots. This was what would happen, and this was how you'd do it. "Stan McElroy left TI6 at Newark. You're fit it fly?"

The sheer unreasonableness of the expectation in that voice caught under Virgil's ribs, but he answered, "Yessir."

"Good. Then get down to Florida, asap. Gordon's got himself arrested."

And the elegy playing in his head disappeared with a sizzle of guilt.

"What? Why? What for?"

"Apparently – " And his father's impotent fury and worry was a real thing, echoing in his head, "Gordon decided to get drunk and ram a car into a group of people. I'm still trying to get the actual details, but that's what I've got so far. You need to be there now."

Because you weren't there when you were supposed to be.

"I'm on it." It was all he could say, really, as he shouldered his way through the crowd towards the taxi ranks. None to be had, of course, so instead he broke into a jog and began heading toward W 65th Street where he knew another one stood.

"I'm six hours out. We've just left Moscow. I've got onto Shunji, he'll meet you at the airport and take you to Tampa Holding Center."

"Right. Dad – "

"We'll discuss this when we know more. Just – fast as you can, Virgil."

And then his dad was gone, and Virgil's brain was a flat-line of one thought. Airfield. Now.

The second taxi rank was fruitful. He got to Newark airfield in less than half an hour, and he had enough presence of mind to ring ahead and make sure the plane was fuelled and ready for take-off before he got there. From the last note of Anna's music to the first roar of the small Tracy Industries jet was fifty minutes all up, and Virgil was pulling back the throttle to soar into the clear moonlit night before he even allowed himself to let the guilt and worry and horror coalesce into thought.

Grandma once talked about trusting his gut, but she wasn't the first. He had a vivid memory of his mom, as the plane levelled at 20,000 feet and he turned from his take-off direction to fly south, down to Florida. Nowhere special, just the back porch at the farm, but he could still feel the crisp slap of the Kansas fall wind, he could still smell the faint cinnamon and vanilla of her perfume as he cuddled into her, warm and safe and loved.

"You're my little one man seismograph, aren't you? Every little rumble in this family and you feel it. It's alright, sweetheart, I'll look after John."

What was it that worried him that time? He couldn't remember, and he knew that digging for it somewhere amongst the debris of a thousand little family dramas was mere deflection from the looming collision with his own conscience.

He couldn't deny he'd heard it, the trouble in Gordon's voice. He couldn't deny he'd felt it, that uliginous fear stirring in the pit of his soul. He couldn't deny he'd known that agreeing to be there on the weekend and deciding on a Sunday appearance was playing with the definition to his own advantage.

So that left him with – what? A concert. He'd wanted some nice music. And some childish sense that his work was done for the year, he deserved a little celebration before picking up the next round of Tracy family duties.

He knew what his father would think, and say, probably with the full force of Jeff Tracy's Displeasure, an echoing blast known to fell entire boards of directors and bring down any low flying craft in the vicinity. Dad could probably save himself the effort. If the slowly swelling nausea in his belly was any indication, by the time Virgil got to Tampa he was going to feel as sick with guilt as a human being could feel while still conscious and ambulant.

Shunji Fujimura, his father's fixer in Florida, was waiting for him at the airport. He had a few more details to add to the story, but not much.

"They're keeping him at the Tampa Holding Center. State of the art facility for processing arrests. I think you'll be impressed."

Virgil felt every one of the hours after midnight on his shoulders as they drove down the Memorial Highway into the heart of the city. He suspected his ability to admire the latest in law enforcement housing was limited.

"And I've sent the press after a juicy piece of scandal in the other direction." Shunji swerved around the driverless cars going at the mandated speed, his blue exception tag on the side of the car giving him the right. "A certain CEO of a major transnational company. I've been collecting a few bits and pieces on him for more than two years. You never know when you're gonna need a bucket of chum in the water to attract the sharks elsewhere."

Virgil had only met Shunji once before. He was able to admit it to himself that he was glad the man was on their side.

"Will there be anyone at the center?" He meant press.

"There's always the freelance stringer, or someone with a phone, so keep your head down. As far as I can tell, there's no one there tonight. And yeah, I've checked." Shunji indicated behind him with his head. "There's a hoodie in the back seat for you, and one for Gordon. Put it on before you go in, and these sunglasses."

"Isn't that going to attract attention? A hoodie in Florida summer? Sunglasses at night?"

Shunji gave a slight shrug as they narrowly avoided another cluster of cars.

"Sure. But if there's no picture there's deniability. I'm hoping we can kill this tonight."

"But he hit some people…"

"They're fine. Scratches, bruises, I've already paid full medical expenses at outpatients so I've got a hold of their medical records. It's how it works down here. You pay for the treatment, you literally buy the records."

Another swerve and even Virgil, who enjoyed the hell out of speed most days, found himself clutching the car door.

"What's the point of that?"

"So they can't turn around in two months and sue for anything more than what they've got. They were shook up, and one of them scraped her hand, one of them got a sprained ankle. Must've fallen funny. But they're fine."

And that was a relief Virgil couldn't even begin to put into words. The thought of his little brother as someone who had drunkenly harmed people to the point of ruining lives was so awful he hadn't been able to consider it for more than a few seconds at a time as he flew down.

It wouldn't change things as far as Jeff Tracy was concerned, of course. The possibility of that outcome would be riding shotgun in his father's mind alongside the other dread spectre of Gordon writing himself off in the same criminally irresponsible way.

"I got him listed under his ID number," Shunji said. "So listen up for a number starting in 4 and ending in 7466."

"Got it."

"He'll get bail. Probably several million."

"For a DUI that didn't hurt anyone?"

"It's not just about the charge. It's based on the wealth of the individual. Don't worry, your dad's already put ten mill in your account. You can pay it. Okay, this is us. I can't park here, but I'll be here when you come out."

"How will you – "

"Don't worry about it." The car came to a halt, and the door opened. Shunji gave him a smile that conveyed confidence and sympathy in equal measure. "Good luck, man."

The center was situated in a side-street off East Madison Street, a brightly lit building that took up most of the block. Virgil couldn't help but think of another bright building he'd entered that night, only this one was the keeper of nothing but misery in its depths. He nodded to Shunji, who would wait somewhere outside in the car as Virgil went in to retrieve his brother.

He wondered what Vern and Rosanna were doing just now.

He was met by an AI at the door, who asked, in that faintly unnerving official AI voice, for his ID before scanning his face and body and releasing the inner door to allow him access to the waiting area.

The moment he sat down amongst the others waiting to pay for and collect their friends or family or clients, he felt himself sag. Already a long night, and his father was arriving in an hour or two, a one man hurricane blowing in from the east. For several minutes all he could do was simply sit, his mind buzzing with emptiness, the misery and belligerence and despair of the people around him soaking into his pores as he tried to find some way of centring himself. It was something he was usually good at, finding his emotions, labelling and prioritising each, giving each one its space and time but refusing to be owned by any single one unless he needed to be. Scott once called him freaky, the way he could marshal his feelings so well in the face of all the provocation provided by his family, but the truth was that Virgil felt so much, and so deeply, that if he couldn't find his centre and hold to it, he would be swept away. Scott tended to go with what he had, trusting whatever he was feeling was right, but his emotions seemed to flare and flicker before dying down into embers, ready for the next burst of oxygen. He was fire. Virgil was water, and where one was brief and destructive but easily doused, the other was a long, deep wave that would drag everything down under with it. Virgil controlled his emotions because he had to.

And tonight – this morning, really, almost 4am – his emotions refused to be corralled.

Guilt, sure, for not being where he was needed, for hearing the plea in Gordon's voice and resisting. This was on him, in no uncertain terms.

Fear, perhaps. It wasn't that he feared his father, as such, only that he was definitely not looking forward to the whirlwind that was coming. It was going to be … jam-packed with excitement. Yeah, that was a nice way to put it.

But beneath both, boiling up in a bubbling cauldron of bile – anger. So much anger. And if there was any emotion he hated feeling, it was this. All directed squarely at Gordon.

His golden kid brother. The happy-go-lucky prince who never sweated much on school and somehow was allowed to do just enough to get by. The lucky one, who let misfortune slide off him so easily an observer could be fooled into thinking it never visited him. Cheeky and irrepressible and so damned spoilt and irresponsible that he'd taken all of it, everything fate had handed to him on a plate, family and ability and fame and success and just pissed it away…

Virgil got up, unable to sit any more, and an AI swiftly came to him.

"Is there a problem, sir?"

That perfect human inflection, the one that still made his skin crawl.

"No. I'm fine. I just –"

"Then please take your seat, sir."

There was no arguing with an indestructible AI equipped with more weapons than Virgil could name. He didn't want to be tranquilised into unconsciousness for six hours.

Or maybe he did? Get himself tranked, knocked out, he'd wake up in the hotel and The Scene between Gordon and Dad would be over, one way or the other.

He sat, and as he did he heard the number called that he'd been waiting for.

A light went on above a portal, with the last six digits of Gordon's ID illuminated above it. The holding cells were all no more than five feet wide and six feet deep, smooth curved walls and floors that could instantly be purged of whatever bodily fluid was disgorged in them. The cells were fixed to a rotor that spun slowly around to allow deposits and pick-ups, one inmate at a time able to reach the outside as their cell came into alignment with the access area.

Now Virgil was directed to a small window alongside, where another AI waited.

"Are you paying bail?"

The bail system relied solely on machines to collect all the relevant data about each person who came within their system. Fifty two state police records would have been accessed. Federal and state tax returns. Social data. Gordon's worth as a member of US society would have been filtered and filed and finalised. A prior conviction would see him kept until morning for the court session. But a sixteen year old swimming champion from a wealthy and well –respected family? He got bail, automatically calculated according to a matrix.

Three million dollars came up on the electronic pad at the window. Virgil swiped his card, without comment, and one of the darkened glass doors beside him slid open.

Within the access area was a small space in front of the holding cell door. It was clear that this was a panel that allowed him to see in, but that Gordon could not see out. It was the first time he'd seen his brother since they flew out from Jakarta, two weeks ago, and the image he held in his mind of that happy and contented boy floating before him in his giddiness as they boarded the plane melted away.

His little brother looked small, and sick, and scared.

A gash on his forehead, perfunctorily bandaged – no one had mentioned that – and clothes that looked as if they'd been doused in something then sat in for several hours. His shoulders were rounded, his arms held tight across his stomach, head down, staring at the floor.

A light went on in the cell and Gordon lifted his head to it. A moment, as emotions made his face naked in a way Virgil had never seen on his brother before – hope, fleeting, and then sadness, and fear, something so overwhelming that it made him close his eyes briefly. Sixteen looked so young to nineteen in that moment.

And then Virgil watched as his brother found another inch in height, pulling his shoulders back, lifting his chin. He shifted his feet a little wider, a fighting stance.

Gordon Cooper Tracy was ready for whatever was coming through the door at him, and Virgil found his breath caught a little in his throat.

Attaboy.

The door slid back, and Gordon saw Virgil, and the sound he made brought the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

"Virgil!"

The smell of alcohol was pungent, but Virgil opened his arms and Gordon just clung to him, desperate and glad and sorry. He could feel his baby brother's regret through his fingers as he clutched Virgil's shoulders.

"Come on. Let's go. Wow." He pushed Gordon back, an act of normality in this strangest and ugliest of circumstances. "You stink."

Gordon shook his head but didn't say anything, and that alone was a cause for appraisal as they stepped into the waiting area. Virgil kept one hand on him as they moved past the others waiting there, some of whom looked up with dull envy, most of whom ignored them.

"You okay?"

"The people? That we hit? Virgil, are – what's – are they okay?"

Scott may have made him wait for it, a penance. But Virgil's anger had frozen at the sight of that gash, those rounded shoulders, and he hurried to put Gordon's fears to rest.

"They're fine. No real hurt. They're being looked after."

Gordon's subsequent sideways slump against him told Virgil all he needed to know about just how badly his brother was feeling about that, and it melted more of his anger.

"Here. Put this on." He handed the other hoodie to Gordon. "Yeah, I know, but anything we can do to keep the press off your scent is a good thing."

Gordon looked at the garment as if it was as incomprehensible as physics to him. Virgil made a sound that was suspiciously like a tut.

"Put your arms up. There." Years of dressing him had Virgil falling back into old habits, dragging the hoodie over Gordon's head and yanking it down. "Okay. Hood up. Glasses on." He took his arm again and almost dragged him through the doors. "Come on, you gangster."

The car was pulling up as they reached the bottom of the steps, the kind of conjuring trick fixers as good as Shunji Fujimura did without raising a sweat. There was a reason Jeff paid him the kind of retainer he did.

As they reached the bottom step, someone yelled.

"Hey! Gordon! Gordon Tracy! Hey!"

Virgil's arm shot out to push Gordon's head down as it began to automatically rise in response to his name.

"Shut up and get in."

The car door was open, and Virgil bundled Gordon into the back seat, even as the man yelling began to run toward them.

"Get your head down!" Shunji barked, and Gordon dropped. The car squealed away, even as the man kept recording. Virgil kept his own head down, and when they cleared the street and merged onto the main road he raised it to be met with a nod of approval from the fixer.

"How - ?"

"Someone knew." Shunji's expression was grim. "That was an ambush."

"Do you think they got anything?"

Shunji shook his head.

"No. You did well."

"The car? Can they trace that to us?"

He meant Tracy Industries, and Shunji spared him the quickest of raised eyebrows. It said 'You kidding me?' without words. Shunji made another turn, and they came out to the waterfront.

"You're booked into the Marriott Waterside. I'd suggest showers all round before your dad gets in." Contained in the car, the stench from Gordon was overpowering.

"Jesus, Gordon, what were you drinking?"

Virgil swung around in his seat to ask, but Gordon's jaw tightened and he stared out the window instead at the false dawn lightening the streets, the water.

"Fine. But you better get your story together. You know the silent treatment doesn't work with Dad."

A flicker of something in his eyes, but Gordon said nothing, and Virgil turned back to watch the negligible traffic on a Sunday morning in downtown Tampa.

Shunji parked at the Marriott and went to get room codes while Virgil and Gordon waited in the car. Neither one said anything. There was too much to say in the few minutes they had, and Virgil, for one, didn't want to start talking with the sickening sweet smell of coconut and rum in his nostrils.

His phone gave two short buzzes, and Virgil stirred to read the text. "That's us. We're going in the service entry. Come on."

In the grey light Gordon looked even sicker than he had in the cell, and Virgil paused as they got out of the car.

"You sure you're alright?"

Gordon frowned slightly, and when Virgil nodded towards his forehead, put his hand up to the bandage as if he'd forgotten the injury there.

"Just tired." He gave a twist of his mouth that might have been the ghost of a grin on another day. "And – you know."

"Yeah." Virgil had the strong sense that left to himself Gordon would just keep standing there in the carpark, so he took his arm again and pulled him towards the back of the hotel, where he could now see Shunji waiting for him.

"I've checked the hallway and your rooms. The entry code's in your phone – you're in the penthouse. Get some water into him and I'll talk to you soon. A few things I gotta check."

"Sure. Uh – thanks."

Shunji nodded, and gave Virgil a brief clap on his shoulder, then he was gone, back to the car, and Virgil was dragging Gordon into the back of the laundry at the rear of one of the best hotels in Tampa.

It was easy enough to find their way up through the service stairs to the penthouse suite elevator entry off the main foyer. It was also a very good thing it was so early

Gordon looked so miserable, slumped against the railing in the elevator, that Virgil couldn't help himself.

"Hey. Come on. You'll feel better after a shower." He tried for a smile. "And apparently black coffee's good for a hangover."

"I'm not – " Gordon broke off from whatever he was going to say, and settled for a shrug instead.

The penthouse was as ridiculous as any other five star penthouse, but having the ability to close the world out behind magnificent and very solid oak doors was a sheer relief. He opened another door expecting the bathroom and found a walk in wardrobe.

"Okay. I think a Sherpa or something would be helpful but – " Another door revealed a study. "Give me half an hour and a compass and I might be able to find – here." He stood aside, and Gordon followed listlessly. "Bathroom. Showers. For god's sake, drop those clothes in the laundry before Dad comes."

"Is he coming?"

"Dad? Yeah."

"From Russia."

"Yeah."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

With a sigh as if he was going in to battle, rather than a luxury four-fauceted shower, Gordon closed the door behind him, leaving Virgil to slide into an Eames inspired chair and watch the coming dawn while counting his blessings.

No one was hurt. Number one and pre-eminent in every way. The people hit were doing fine, and so was Gordon. The fact his brother asked first about them rather than about himself was something that hadn't gone unnoticed and unapproved in Virgil's reckoning.

Secondly, Gordon wasn't puling, puking, fighting drunk. He'd imagined almost everything as he flew down, and that was one of them. Dealing with a little brother, a kid, covered in vomit and yelling obscenities was a distressing vision, and he was deeply thankful to banish it. In fact, when he considered it, Gordon was remarkably sober in appearance.  
Huh. Guess ploughing into a group of people will do that.

Dad was flying in, and it wouldn't be pretty when he arrived. But at heart the man adored his children, something Virgil knew instinctively but that others sometimes had to be reminded of. Especially Gordon. Dad would express his anger, and that would burn, and then he'd express his disappointment, and that would feel like a knife, but afterwards they'd talk it out and figure it out and they'd start again, in whatever direction his father decided. It would be okay.

Anna seemed like aeons ago. And okay, maybe the evening had been abruptly terminated in something awful, but that place she'd carved so exquisitely in his mind by her presence would still be there. He'd find it again, in calmer times, and the guilt at his selfishness that would be the price of admission was one he would pay, every time.

He closed his eyes. It had been a long night.

And opened them abruptly at the sound of someone coming into the penthouse to find that the sunlight was significantly brighter, and Gordon was now curled up on the chair opposite, fast asleep.

"Virgil."

His father. When angry, he could make his voice act like a depth charge going off somewhere beneath everyone's feet, dark and explosive.

Disoriented with the awful feeling that comes with unexpected daytime sleep, Virgil floundered to his feet.

His father looked contained. Tight with emotions kept in check at real cost to his equilibrium. He nodded towards where Gordon slept on, unaware.

"How is he?"

Virgil cleared his throat.

"He's alright, I think. Got a bang to his head, but he seemed clear enough."

"For a drunk."

Virgil winced. Jeff Tracy didn't seem to notice.

"And how are you?"

"I'm fine, Dad."

A nod, and his father ran a hand briefly over his mouth, the only outward sign of the stress he was feeling.

"Fujimura looked after you alright?"

"Yeah. He was pretty impressive, to be honest."

Jeff nodded.

"A good man. He's getting the charge details now. We'll deal with those when they arrive. Have you eaten?"

Virgil blinked, wrong footed.

"Uh – no? Not since – lunch yesterday, I guess."

"We'll order something. I'm starving. Now that I know you boys are alright, anything else we have to discuss can wait until after we've both gotten a meal inside us."

"'M not a drunk." The words were said into the chair Gordon was ensconced in, muffled but certain. His brother and father were both startled to hear from him. Jeff cocked his head to one side.

"Think you can come out of that chair and face your old man while you say that?"

"Sure." Gordon raised his head to peer at them both, then got slowly up to his feet.

"I'm not drunk. I wasn't drinking."

"That's not what the police said."

"They're wrong."

Jeff looked at him in silence for several long moments, then turned his attention to Virgil. "Why don't you go ahead and order us some food?"

"Sure." Virgil looked at his brother. "What do you want, Squirt?"

He chose the nickname deliberately. Whatever's coming, kiddo, I got your back.

"Nothing." And now the same fighting stance from the cell, and Virgil's heart dropped down to somewhere young and helpless and afraid. Oh, don't be like that, kid! "I'm not hungry."

"Nonsense. You'll have something. After a night like you've had – "

"Like what, Dad?"

"Do you want me to spell it out for you? Really? Is this your best choice right now, Gordon?"

Whenever his dad asked that, it was time to seriously reconsider your options. But Gordon doubled down, stupid with bravery.

"How come you're going to start in on me without hearing my side?"

"I haven't started in on anything," said Jeff, reasonably, but Virgil could feel the rumbling beneath his feet.

"You may as well. Virgil looks like he's gonna throw up worse than me."

Jeff looked at Virgil, who gave the tiniest of shrugs.

"I don't know if I can eat just now."

"Yes, guilt can do that."

Virgil took the blow, swallowing.

"If you don't mind, sir, I'd just as rather hear what you've got to say now."

"Get it over and done with, eh?"

It wasn't quite a shrug, but Virgil tried. "Something like that."

Jeff gave a small huff, then took a seat against the window. "Alright. You've always been one to rip the plaster off quickly. So, now – I've just cancelled three meetings and flown halfway around the world because of last night's efforts. Why don't you tell me what I'm going to say?"

"Sir?"

"Go on. I'm sure you've rehearsed it all."

For some reason, it made Virgil feel worse, like a small child instead of a nineteen year old well on his way to becoming an engineer in his own right. He glanced at Gordon who stood alone, arms crossed, head up, eyes brimming with angry tears ready to fall.

"I should have been here. I was in New York at the Anna Polianskaya concert, I saved up and got the ticket and I didn't want to give it up, even when Gordon rang me. I should have been here, looking out for Gordon."

Jeff waited. The subsequent silence was thick with accusation.

"I let you down. I let my brother down."

More silence. Virgil looked again to Gordon for inspiration, but Gordon wasn't looking at him.

"I guess – I made a selfish choice, and other people had to pay for it."

That was it, the best he could do, and still his father just regarded him, considering. At last, Jeff gave another small snort.

"That's what you think I have to say, is it?"

If there was worse, Virgil didn't want to hear it.

"And what about you, Gordon? What do you have to say?"

Incredibly, Gordon's chin came up higher.

"That I didn't do anything wrong. That it's not my fault. And I don't care what the police say, or what you say, that won't change anything. And that I'm quitting swimming."

Ah, Gordon. Always capable of delivering the thunderbolt from left field if given enough room to wind it up.

"Are you," his father said heavily, and Virgil felt as though battle was finally joined. It was almost a relief.

"Yep. Told the coach today." He blinked. "I mean, yesterday, I guess."

"Without consulting anyone else?"

Without consulting me was the translation of that one.

"Yep. My life, my body, I'll do what I like with it."

"Including filling it with alcohol and crashing it in someone else's car, I suppose?"

"If I wanted. But I didn't."

Now the depth-charge was fully deployed.

"I cannot abide lying, Gordon!"

"Oh, yeah, good, Dad, just make up your mind before even hearing what I have to say."

"Well, so far you've told me you've made already made one irresponsible decision, I can hardly be expected to believe you didn't make another."

"It wasn't irresponsible and I didn't go drinking, so I guess that's two for two there in getting it wrong."

Oh, this was heading towards all kinds of awful. Virgil could barely believe he was doing it, but standing between his brothers and danger was something he'd done for so long now it was a habit.

"Hey, Gordon?" His brother didn't drag his eyes from glaring at his dad, but at least Virgil owned the airspace for a second or two. "Why don't you start at the beginning and tell us what happened yesterday. Dad – " he went on, as he saw his father own his mouth to argue, "we need to give him a chance."

His studies didn't support the notion that mere glares could cut steel, but he was willing to offer his father as an argument for the possibility.

"Fine." Crisp, decisive, controlled. A gesture of invitation towards Gordon that was just this side of dismissive. "Gordon. Why don't you tell me exactly what has been going on since you rang me in tears on Wednesday."

Gordon was in tears? This was news to Virgil.

"I wasn't in tears."

Trust Gordon to muddy those waters at once.

"Alright. Let's say upset, then."

"Why?" Virgil asked, unable to stop himself. "What's wrong?"

And now, with the time and opportunity to tell his side, Gordon hesitated.

"I…"

His father's expression didn't change. Virgil ached for his little brother, and looked for a way to help.

"Was it at swimming? Something that happened at the camp?"

"Yeah." Reluctant, but committed now, Gordon forced the words between twisted lips. "It – I guess it stopped being fun."

"Okay. Any particular reason?"

Gordon swallowed, and Virgil, so adept at reading the subterranean tremors, knew it wasn't shame that made it so hard for him to speak out.

"Is it another swimmer there?"

A small nod, and when Virgil answered in kind, it seemed to give him the permission he needed.

"One of the others on the relay. I'm not going to say who, coach wanted me to, but – I'm not that guy. I'm not going to…"

"Alright." And Dad might have been listening before, but now he was attuned in a different way, sharp and hard. Virgil knew how that felt. His own hackles were up, and he didn't even know he had them half the time. "Just tell us what you can, son."

"He started rumours about me. He blames me for the silver. Said I didn't touch clean, said I was too slow, brought the whole team down."

"You were slower than in your medal race," said Dad, scrupulous.

"Yeah, I know. I know. I tried, but I was - there wasn't that extra bit in me, when it came to that final race." Gordon's face was troubled. "I don't know why. I really wanted it, for the other guys, you know? But I was .15 slower, I know, and yeah, maybe that made the difference."

"What about the touch?" Virgil asked, but Gordon shook his head.

"No. I've watched it back. My touch was up, it was fine."

"So this other fellow has been bad mouthing you? And you don't think you can handle that?"

"Not – not just talk about that. He kinda started a few rumours that just spread everywhere."

"That can be hard," Dad said, gravely. "But I would hate to think that one person's malice would make that much difference to something you wanted to do, son."

"I've done what I wanted. I got the medal."

Every beat of Virgil's heart was a tom tom of war. Someone was monstering his little brother. Someone was doing it so much that his kid brother quit the sport he loved. Unable to contain the urge to immediately find the nearest tactical weapon while sitting down, he got up and strode over to the wall of windows, looking out over the marina and the bay beyond.

His dad's eyes narrowed. "Is that why you went out last night?"

"Nice euphemism, Dad," and that sounded more like Gordon. "No, I didn't go out with them, and then Trav rang at about 9.30 so drunk he could barely get my name out and I figured I better go and get the idiot back home before he lost his scholarship."

"You were bringing them home?"

"Yeah." Wry, in that way Gordon could be when the spark was flattened out of him. "That was my rescue attempt. Three of them, and then – this guy, the one, he's in the front seat because the other two are passed out in back and it's his car, they didn't take a driverless, morons, and he just – he grabbed the wheel, pulled it sideways. I couldn't stop him. I swear, Dad, I didn't drink anything. But I got a mass of alcohol all over me when we hit."

Jeff Tracy stared at his son for almost a minute, considering. Virgil felt his palms sweat. He knew there was nothing he could do to help either of them now, and the impotence was painful.

Finally, his father turned to him.

"Virgil, I think we can use that breakfast now, don't you?"

"Yes, sir." He realised he really was hungry. But as he finished tapping in their order on the electronic menu sitting on the ornamental table beside him, Jeff reached over and touched his arm.

"Would you like to know what I thought of your idea of my probable comments?"

Virgil blinked.

"I guess?"

"Well, I thought they were woeful." Jeff got up and strode over to sit back down at the dining table, ready for their meal.

Gordon and Virgil looked at each other, both a little perplexed, both unwilling and unable to fathom their father's intentions.

"You thought I was off the mark?"

"Off the mark? Try not even in the ball park." Jeff brought his hands before him on the table and studied them for a few seconds before lifting his head back up. "Virgil, I wouldn't recognise selfish on you. Son, you had every right to take some time for yourself. You've worked hard and you deserved a treat. If I'd known about the concert I'd have agreed to Sunday, and it would be pretty unfair of me to disapprove retrospectively, wouldn't it?"

His mouth was dropping open, and Scott said whenever that happened he looked like a yokel, but Virgil couldn't help it.

"And Gordon?"

Startled, Gordon almost yipped.

"Sir?"

"I think we need to have a round table discussion with your coach. I would hate to see you give up something you loved based on some gossip. I like to think I've raised my sons to have more self-respect than that. But if you really have achieved everything you wanted to in swimming, I have no objections to you finding your next goal. As for last night, I will be expecting Shunji to contact me in the next few minutes with the police charges and blood alcohol readings. I'm fully expecting them to read zero for the latter. Am I right to do so?"

Gordon looked his father in the eye.

"Yes."

"Good. I'll get my lawyers onto the other. Gordon, the police record will show who was sitting beside you. I believe what you're saying, and I respect your disinclination to tell tales, but if this boy is out to get you into trouble, he may be telling a different story to the police. You'll need to be prepared to explain this campaign of bullying, and why you went out to pick up your teammates. Do you understand that, son?"

All at once, the stiffness in Gordon's shoulders seemed to melt away. For a moment, Virgil thought he was going to melt into a bath-robed puddle by the chair.

"Okay, Dad."

"Good. So let's eat. And when they get here, let's hope they bring a side order of common sense, because it seems to me like that's been lacking in both of you these last few hours."

Virgil cleared his throat. The relief he felt made him almost light headed.

"I think I will grab a quick shower, if that's okay?"

Jeff nodded. "Sounds like a good idea. And when you come out, maybe you can play us some of Anna's stuff. I like her music."

"Sure thing."

He made his way into the gold and turquoise Arabic style bathroom, stepping over Gordon's clothes and towels and the long puddles of water that announced his path from shower to sink. Typical.

As he bent down to collect the mess – picking up after Gordon, no surprises there – he couldn't help but think of the ups and down of the night behind him.

A sublime concert. A miserable flight. The ignominy of a holding center. The opulence of five stars.

Worry turning to anger turning to concern turning to pride.

Fear of conflict and contempt meeting respect and trust.

The helter-skelter of life as a Tracy brother. Yeah, that was a piece of music with more moods than a dozen concerts. Still. Maybe Anna could say it as well as anyone.

And playing the concert through in his mind, Virgil undressed and stepped into the shower, letting the water pour down upon him as he lifted up his heart to the music within.


End file.
